Now that I am dead, I know everything.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

a handful of crumpled stars

You might 'write from the heart,' but you'd better polish with your brain.

Once a month I wake in the night, slippery with terror. I'm afraid, not because there's someone in the room, in the dark, in the bed, but because there isn't. I'm afraid of the emptiness, which lies beside me like a corpse.

Science fiction went through a period that was mostly object-oriented or inventions for distant galaxies.But when we cracked the genetic DNA code, opened the big Pandora's box, and it really did become possible to produce chimeras, my ears shot up.

Canada was built on dead beavers.